


Elsa's Room (Do Not Enter)

by Sunhasrisen



Category: Frozen (2013)
Genre: Anxiety, Cold, Dark, Depression, Family, Gen, Ice, Lonliness, Sisters, Snow, angsty
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2014-03-08
Updated: 2014-03-08
Packaged: 2018-01-15 00:10:03
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,645
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1283932
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Sunhasrisen/pseuds/Sunhasrisen
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>During those lonely, cold years, Elsa has nothing but her imagination and her room.  And so she used that imagination to create what was missing in her life: Friends. Intimacy. People. Love. But her parents do not approve.</p><p>Warning: This doesn't happen at all in the movie.  There is no mention of this story line.  It's just a "what may have happened during those years in her room" kind of thing.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Elsa's Room (Do Not Enter)

**Author's Note:**

> Elsa is such a relatable character, as she is the enigma of stress, anxiety, and depression. So, to lash out my anger and constriction I feel at the moment, I wrote something about Elsa's journey through those torturous years.
> 
> I may or may not be making this into a series of oneshots of what happened to Elsa during those years. Depends on if I still have these disgusting feelings.
> 
> Warning: This doesn't happen at all in the movie. There is no mention of this story line. It's just a "what may have happened during those years in her room" kind of thing.
> 
> I hope this reaches your heart, as it was created from mine.

She was eleven when she met her first ever imaginary friend.

(Imagination was the only thing that could fill what was missing.)

Her friend was female and, actually, at least twenty years older than her mother.  She was strong, wise, so wise, and always scurrying around, as if she was busy with something.  She always wore thick, woolen sweaters with black pants and shoes, her front teeth jutting out as she constantly gave out a wrinkled smile.  Her tomboy, bark colored hair made her look even shorter than she actually was, her chatter a chipper, low voice.

_A squirrel._

She was also the first person she confessed _everything_ to.

_A councilor squirrel?_

Often the councirrel (she was eleven, not thirty, okay?) would give her proverbs Elsa actually understood, albeit vaguely.  She was mature for her age after all, at least, said the adults that would see her from time to time as she joined her parents to learn about royal responsibilities.  It was due to her reflecting nature on things that are, have been, and/or will be, as well as the tendency to over-think; two things that weren't supposed to exist until her teenage years.  At least she'll have more time to adjust to it, if she'll ever be able to adapt.

Often, the councirrel would break down her personality, informing her of random things like: “you’re blue and gold.  Bad mix.  Blue is cautious, careful.  Gold is rebellious, free, impulsive.  Always clashing.”  That’s how she talked.  No “but,” “and,” “or.”  She loved periods and long pauses too much to use comas or semicolons.  How did the councirrel know that’s true anyway?  How did she know who she truly is, when she was only eleven, undeveloped?  She didn't even know herself.

A question that lingered long after it was first asked was constantly pushed aside in fear.

_Who was she?_

* * *

 

She's so hungry, now.  She wants something _tasty_ to eat.  Even an apple would do.

(Four years ago, she would _never_ eat an apple, let alone vegetables/fruits (although she persistently forced herself to).  Carrots were the exception, as she was terrified that her vision was damaged due to seeing a ghost –a.k.a. her first friend– for the first time, in her room.)

Even when her body tingles deep inside with craving, twisting words seals the doors to the food areas and chains her body to her room.

Even now, and hour or two later, she can still feel her mother’s hands slipping gloves on her cold ones, her mother's desperate rebukes still in her ears. Her father stood beside them, eyes locked in disappointment, shame, and frustration at the wrong icing that coated the entire large cake on the outside, as well as the inside.

They didn't even frown at the icing and cake crumbs on her lips and the tips of her fingers, ushering her back to her room.

* * *

 

She busied her mind with sorting the decorations she so meticulously placed on the walls, making sure it seemed as natural as possible by slightly tilting them.  She glanced at the small, colorfully written notes taped on various selected areas of her fading blue walls, and grabbed them.  Her eyes glazed through the encouraging messages on them, and calmly tore them -with great force- in half, then in misshaped quarters.

Ripping paper was so calming.

“You shouldn't do that.  Whatever happened to _‘trying to encourage your future self’_?”

Elsa unconsciously froze the notes as she threw them away; useless, used paper, never again to be manipulated by the same person.

She watched her imagination sit still on her desk.  It was the only thing to watch, albeit boring.  Her imagination was in the form of someone different than the councirrel.  This time it was an English Teacher.  She was still a councilor, but her English Teacher identity overruled that.

It wasn't because she constantly corrected her grammar or read poetry all the time.  It was her even, soft yet grounded voice, and the way she held herself.  Tall.  Relaxed.  Welcoming.  Aware.  She never wavered.  Did she even know the sounds “uh” and “umm”?  Have her shoulders ever slumped with the weight of responsibility?

In a way, she was like a role model to Elsa, someone to look up to and copy.

This time, she was a bit more than half her father’s age.  Her hair was tight in a pony tail, a soft blonde that worked well with her striking blue eyes.  She was notably large, even her face was pudgy, but it disappeared behind her strength and her calm, content personality, which shown –like the sun’s rays reflecting on snow; bright and disarming– on her smile.

Elsa shrugged, quirking her lips upward at the question.  If she tried to reply, she would end up blabbering.  She already told her teacher whatever issues she was currently having.  No need to add more detail.

Having and English Teacher is way too liberating sometimes.

It didn't help either that this teacher was so attentive and patient.  She waited, always expecting Elsa to say something, to either continue the conversation, or end it.

She _hates_ expectations.

_Why can’t she just say something? Why does it always have to be her steering the conversations?_

Elsa plopped onto her silk bed, her stomach flattened at the impact.  She stretched her body on it, silently dismissing her teacher.  She pulled out her homework from her nightstand (politics, math), and starts to write mindlessly, not even caring to pull out her hair from her tight bun, discordant with her loose clothing.

* * *

She is sixteen when her parents discover her imaginary friends.

It’s after her failed attempted on cutting her old clothing into something that could be reused (the project was then abandoned in frustration along with the many other attempted hobbies). She dearly misses music and dancing, the only pastimes that came close to expressing her feelings.

The more reason that it should be stowed away and avoided at all costs.

_Conceal, don’t feel._

She hates those words, because they were so hard to follow.  It took over every inch of her life.  Her pastimes, her responsibilities, her feelings, everything.

But she’s afraid that if she doesn’t obey, doesn’t try with all her might, everything will collapse, for her life had no other support.

But along with the lack of attachment and connection with her emotions, comes a mystery of herself.

To be able to better understand her complex, void self, she scrambles to find truth in superstitions that linked with personality, and what her councirrel said to her.  

It slips out of her mouth during dinner.

“What _colors_?  What are you talking about? _Personality colors_? Sweety, your father and I have been hearing you sing and talk in your room quite often, as if you’re having a conversation with someone.  Has someone been sneaking into your room? Or is it that you have imaginary… people!? Are you imagining people?  Oh sweetie…”  
  
Elsa’s father takes over, as her mother is too shocked to continue.

“Darling, you know that’s not good.  They’re not real.  You can’t think about these… superstitions.  You can’t daydream all the time.  You’re going to be queen someday, maybe sooner than you think.  Focus on controlling your powers, and you won’t have to worry about anything, alright?”

He watches Elsa, expecting a response, which seemingly, she gave, as her mother walks forward to softly grab her forearms.  Eyes that look like dark, depthless rivers bore into faded blue ones, a smile contrasting against her weary face.

“Now, sweetie, it’s going to be alright.  We love you.  Now, go away to your bedroom.  Relax a bit.  Do some knitting, or even write.  That’s what you like, yes? It will help.”  
  
 _If that could have helped, I would have already done it._

She couldn’t say anything, her throat too tight to even breathe.  So she does what she did best.

She softly walks into her room, not even bothering to lock the door, and remembers.

” _Elsa?_

_Do you wanna build a snowman?_

_Come on, let’s go and play~_

_I never get to see you anymore_

_Come out the door_

_It’s like you’ve gone away~_  
  
We used to be best buddies

_And now we’re not_

_I wish you would tell me why_

_Do you wanna build a snowman?_

_It doesn’t have to be a snowman_

Go away, Anna!

_Okay, bye…”_

She curls herself up on her bed. A small area of the bed is damp, right below her eyes.  She slowly, shaking, peels off her left hand gloves.  But at the sight of her exposed, pale palm she snaps the gloves back in place.  She huddles even tighter around her hands, which clench tightly together near her chest, but not touching it.  It was as if she was trying to use her body to protect her hands from the world, when really, it was the reverse.

She loves to sing, she yearns to join voices together with her sister, but she can’t.  Her emotions will force themselves to be revealed, and like a snow avalanche, her strength will crumble, and anyone near her will feel intensifying pressure that will crumble their weak body, no matter who it is.

What better than to just avoid that? To squeeze her voice, pressure it down until it’s no longer but just a speck of dust?

At least it’s better to say: “ _go away, Anna!”_

Than to say: “ _goodbye, Anna.”_

Elsa takes deep breathes, as she tries to wrap herself, like so many other times, into her cocoon of ice and snow, repeating her motto even as unconsciousness falls upon her, even as her walls seem to close in on her, her room spotless like untouched snow on a cloudy day, darkened by the lack of light which were blocked by thick curtains.

_Conceal it, don’t feel it, don’t let it show._


End file.
